The sight,
Balanced, unerwhelming,
How their nerves shake a body,
Like fox found with the chicken.
The smell,
Putrid, unchanging.
The foul stink of lies upon the spoiled tongues
That once spoke of honey.
The sound,
Pockets jingerling,
You cannot worship god and money,
He watches above - displeased.
The touch,
Cold, rigid,
No longer a friendly embrace,
You are no longer welcome.
The taste,
Bumpy, mouldy,
Old forgotten and left out to long,
No longer to be left unchecked.
Author notes
Polititions, inspired by recent thing in Euro/Uk parliment
A contest entry
- Hit me with your best shot - (inc. Prewrites.) by Swintha.
500 points, ended May 31, 40 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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